The Professors Canvas

~Elena's POV~

"The studio keys were in my desk drawer." Mateo's voice is flat, dead. "Campus security inventoried my office this afternoon."

My back is still against his wall, jeans unbuttoned, his hand print visible on my hip. The dean's voice continues through the phone speaker, sharp and authoritative.

"I need you on campus within the hour, Professor Sandoval. This cannot wait until morning."

"I understand. I'll be there in thirty minutes."

He ends the call. Silence crushes down between us.

"They know about the studio." I'm still trying to process. "They'll connect me to it. The payments..."

"I used cash. There's no paper trail to you." He runs both hands through his hair. "I'll tell them it's for personal projects. Private figure studies unrelated to university work."

"They won't believe that."

"They don't need to believe it. They need to prove it." He's already moving, grabbing a shirt from his closet. "You need to leave. Before anyone sees you here."

"I'm coming with you."

"Absolutely not."

"Mateo..."

"Professor Sandoval." He yanks the shirt on. "From this moment forward, we don't know each other beyond classroom interaction. You were never in my studio. Tonight never happened."

Something hot and sharp twists in my chest. "You're cutting me loose?"

"I'm protecting you."

"By pretending I don't exist?" I button my jeans with shaking hands. "By taking all the blame for something we both chose?"

"Yes."

The single word detonates between us.

"Fuck that." I get in his face. "And fuck you for deciding my future without asking me."

His jaw tightens. "Elena..."

"I'm going to that meeting. I'm telling them everything."

"No, you're not."

"Watch me."

He grabs my wrist, stops me from reaching for my bag. "You walk into that building with me, you lose everything. Your degree, your career, your family's respect. I won't let you do that."

"You don't get to let me do anything." I try to twist free. His grip tightens. "Let go."

"Not until you listen..."

"I said let go."

He doesn't. We are locked together, his hand around my wrist. His eyes are wild, desperate.

"Please." The word breaks out of him. "Please, Elena. Just go home. Let me handle this."

"Why? So you can play martyr? So you can pretend you corrupted some innocent student?" I lean in, voice dropping. "I'm not innocent. I wanted you in that bar. I wanted you in your office. I wanted you an hour ago when I came here."

His breathing changes. Roughens.

"And I want you now," I finish.

"You're not thinking clearly..."

I kiss him.

He resists for maybe two seconds. Then he's kissing me back, hard and angry and desperate. 

His hand releases my wrist to fist in my hair, angling my head back. I bite his bottom lip and he groans into my mouth.

"This is a mistake," he breathes between kisses.

"We're already fucked anyway."

He spins me, presses me against the wall beside his front door. My shirt is gone in seconds. His mouth is on my neck, teeth scraping.

"We shouldn't..."

"Shut up." I'm working his belt open, shoving his pants down. "If they're going to crucify us, at least make it worth it."

He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist. No patience. He shoves into me in one brutal thrust and I cry out.

"Too much?"

"More."

He fucks me against the wall with nothing gentle about it. It's angry and raw and exactly what we both need. His fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise. I rake my nails down his back through his shirt.

"Look at me," he demands.

I do. His eyes are black, pupils blown wide.

"I love you." The words punch out of him between thrusts. "I've tried not to. I've tried to keep my distance. But I love you, and tomorrow they're going to destroy me for it."

The confession breaks something open in my chest. I cup his face, kiss him softer than the way we're fucking.

"Then let them destroy us together."

He comes with my name on his lips. I follow seconds after, biting his shoulder to muffle my sounds.

Afterward, we stay pressed together, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine.

"I have to go," he says quietly.

"I know."

"Alone."

"I know."

He sets me down carefully. We dress in silence, both knowing this changes nothing and everything.

I'm reaching for my bag when a door opens down the hallway.

We both freeze.

Dr. Torres, the distinguished philosophy professor, university board member, Mateo's neighbor, he stands in his doorway in a bathrobe. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes are sharp.

"Professor Sandoval." His gaze shifts to me, recognition dawning. "And Miss Vega, I believe? From the quantum physics program?"

My mouth goes dry.

"Quite the heated discussion you were having." Torres steps fully into the hallway. "These walls are thinner than they appear."

Mateo moves slightly in front of me. "Dr. Torres..."

"How much did you hear?" I cut in.

Torres adjusts his glasses. "Enough to understand this is highly inappropriate. Enough to know I have an ethical obligation to report what I've overheard." 

He pauses. "Unless, of course, there's an explanation that doesn't involve a professor engaging in a sexual relationship with his student."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​